


Hold on a minute

by GodOfWar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But can be read as stand alone, Gen, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Sass, assorted Principalities, casual bamfs, embarrassing discorporations, sorta continuation, those idiots can't be apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 19:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20452226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfWar/pseuds/GodOfWar
Summary: Aziraphale gets himself discorporated. Crowley becomes apublic menace.





	Hold on a minute

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Aziraphale phone rings](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/514289) by rainydaydecaf. 

Heaven is not happy. After whole full year of staggering success the rates suddenly dropped down to an even, but frankly unsatisfying, trickle. Reports come, long and flowery, filled with tripe. A far cry from the the nine demons perishing within months under the righteous anger of an angel of the Lord. Something must be done, the plans were there since Mezopotamia, but Patience is a Virtue, meaning that angels never rush into things. Waiting for opportunite moment to act was very much their speed.

Aziraphale gets discorporated in the most unfortunate circumstances involving one cart, one dog, one freshly married couple and two very spooked horses. Crowley would probably laugh if he wasn’t busy being angry enough to cry.

He goes home, fuming, very nearly kicks his neighbours cat before he catches himself and then to compensate for enduring the idiocy of the ineffable - he growls at his plants till they turn into shivering mess of bright green leaves and opulent flowers. It’s not nearly as satisfying as it should be.

He naps. 

On the rather foggy Tuesday morning, three days after Aziraphale kicked the proverbial bucket, he is woken by something..._holy_. He focuses on the familiar energy, only to discover it was not _his_ angel. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that it was not a stray celestial being taking sabbatical from equally celestial duties.

He introduces himself. It doesn’t go well.

Principality Haniel, de facto leader of his Sphere, blinks up into Heaven remembering how it is to die being chocked by sandstorm in _London_.

Poyel and Vehuel are send together. Multiplying fishes might be a nifty miracle when you have a wedding and a lot of hungry people coming, but not when you end up crushed under few tones of smelly, slimy sardines.

At this point, on day seven, Heaven’s finest realized that there might be a _problem_.

The easiest way, of course, to deal with problems are to destroy them in such way that they might never rise their ugly heads ever again. Angels are particularly good at this profession, seeing as they were all equipped with pointy and sharp objects since about their first second of existence. What they aren’t good at, is predicting that one demon could be a source of absolute and utter chaos and generate the, frankly ridiculous, costs all by himself.

England is paralyzed. 

Over sixty six millions of people are unable to get anywhere. Every car, plane, train and even bicycles - not working. Not moving a single inch. St James park turned into jungle, a fact that only swans and ducks seem happy about. But it’s not even that, that makes Heaven’s up in arms. It’s twenty three accusations of a delicate nature against prominent church hierarchs. It’s reveal of all the goods stolen and hidden in Manchester Cathedral. It’s completely, devastatingly unnecessary speeches about pride in nationality and traditional values of a family that spread all over Europe all the way to America, spreading discord like a lone mosquito spreads malaria. It’s a sudden lack of funds for fighting for climate change and people cut from water while literally swimming in the ocean. 

It’s, in a word, infernal mess.

They send Michael.

She hunts.

She prowls.

She dies not knowing that her prey was behind her all the time, stalking her every movement.

They do not speak about the way she died, no matter how amusing the lower spheres would find it.

Finally, in a bout of desperation four archangels fit themselves into a small office filled to the very high ceiling with sheets of paper. Soft pudgy angel sits there behind a desc, standard pen in his manicured hands as he fills out the missing records.

It’s Gabriel who asks.

Aziraphale peers at them with his blue-gray eyes, puts a stopper onto the pen and smiles.

“I told you he is a willy Adversary. Why do you think Hell keep sending him up since the beginning of time?” Aziraphale worries his lower lip between his teeth as he frowns down at the page, looking like he was trying to remember something. “I think he was sent as replacement for Satan, well at least that’s what the humankind believes. Is he causing much trouble?”

>>>

“We’re closed!”

“I know! You hungry? I’ll buy you crepes if you feel like taking a short trip to Paris?”

Aziraphale closed his inventory and smiled at the tiny scrap of a rainbow flag visible under Crowley’s black jacket sleeve, remembering the first streaks of the sun glistening in the water after long journey with too many animals aboard too small ship and a bunch of children hidden in the coils of a red-bellied snake. Remembers talks about potential and choices and free will. Remembers nights and days tucked in bars and bookshop and at the riverbends with a one constant companion and compares it to the cold ambient light of Heaven.

“Starving, my dear. Let me take my coat.”


End file.
